I Know
by Satinette
Summary: Companion piece and sequel (of sorts) to my previous fic, “Hot Pursuit,” this Mel’s POV missing Pilot scene covers the time from her ‘death’ at Zin’s hand to her telling Jess that Cole will be living with her. Spoilers.


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"I Know"  
by Satinette

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A companion piece and sequel (of sorts) to my previous fic, "Hot Pursuit," this missing scene from the Pilot episode covers the period of time from Mel's death' at Zin's hand to her telling Jess that Cole will be living with her. This time it's told from Mel's point of view as she tries to come to terms with her new reality. Spoilers.

Yesterday afternoon I was viciously murdered. 

At least I think I was. 

From what little I can remember of it, this man – or rather, this some_thing_ that only _looked_ like a man – seized my heart in the vise-grip of his hand and cruelly ripped the living soul out of me, oblivious as I shrieked in agony, my struggles useless as the terrifying darkness closed in and swallowed me whole. 

And then the pain was no more. 

And I was no more. 

We've all read or heard about near-death' experiences, usually about traveling through a tunnel towards an ethereal glowing light; about encountering gods and saints and angels and celestial choirs; about the welcoming committee of long-lost friends and loved ones; about the feelings of warmth and peace and of being loved. But it really wasn't like that at all. At least, it wasn't like that for me. There was only an endless, impenetrable black void of utter nothingness.

Near-death' isn't the same thing as _real_-death' anyway, and I honestly believe I was well and truly dead. Either that or very close to it, on the verge of crossing over' to the other side.' Or maybe I'd already crossed over' and was about to go someplace else. Whatever any of this tail-chasing word play may mean. I don't really know and I don't think anyone else among the living does, either – even if some _can_ put on a good enough act to offer what people want in comfort and guilt assuagement on their own syndicated television shows. And that's fine because, believe me, I don't ever _want_ to know! 

And then ... This is so very hard for me to make sense of or explain. I heard three words repeated several times over again. ... No, that isn't right. ... In truth, I was well beyond _hearing_ anything at all. Not in any conventional way. These words were more ... _felt_, I guess I should say. _Sensed_ ... Almost as some sort of a ... a pull, an inner resonance ... at one and the same time both a desperate plea and a command: "_I need you._"

Somehow – and _no,_ don't even ask. I _don't know_ how! – I managed to answer. I _must've_ answered in some fashion because the darkness retreated and I was once again in the light and warmth of the late summer's afternoon, once again feeling my lungs fill with the fresh taste of sweet air. I was in a weedy ditch on the roadside, cradled in the arms of the shambling, incoherently mumbling man I'd picked up the day before out on Highway 88, wandering around wearing only his briefs. 

He brokenly told me he was sorry, his tears and whimpers raining down on me as he gently stroked my throat. The soul-deep pain and sorrow in his eyes were so palpably raw that I had to reach up and smooth away the hot moisture streaking down his face to offer comfort. 

"I need ... your help, Mel," he said, the plea all but torn out of him. 

"I know," I replied, as soothingly and as reassuringly as I could. And I meant it with all my heart. I didn't care that he was an alien being hailing from some unknown alien world. He had brought me back to the realm of the living and I would help him no matter what. 

Like a sappy montage interlude in some Hollywood B-movie, this next is very dream-like and blurry in my memory. I could somehow sense he was badly weakened and completely exhausted, yet he gathered me up and carried me for I was much too drained to even stand. We were some twenty-five odd miles from home – this I do know with certainty – and although I can't actually remember more than snapshots of the journey, I believe he bore me the entire way back. I do recall the sunlit countryside, the shadows of the afternoon lengthening toward evening and the darkening of twilight as night fell, the chorus of crickets and katydids, the rising of an immense hunter's moon, the lights of the suburbs we passed through and the more dazzling ones as we entered the city. 

At first I simply clung to him as I would a lifeline and cried in his embrace, my face buried in his broad chest. Or I fitfully dozed. Or did both at the same time until his shirt was soaking wet. There seemed no end to my tears. All the while he talked to me, sometimes in a few words of halting English but usually in the lyrical cadence of a language I'd never heard before and couldn't comprehend a single word of. His quiet voice was so gentle, the murmuring of it in his chest so deep and low beneath my ear, entwining with the strong, steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the pacing of his footfalls. After a time it all became mesmerizing, somehow soothing and comforting, purging me of the fears and terrors I'd just been through and finally lulling me into dreamless slumber.

Although I've never been much of a morning person I awoke with the rising of the sun, finding myself on the sofa in the living room of my own home. Everything was very different that morning. Everything had irrevocably changed. I might've been able to convince myself that it wasn't so, that it had all been some sort of weird and horrible extended nightmare except ... Except as I become fully conscious I realized my head was nestled against his chest listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the movement of his lungs as he breathed, and I was curled up in his lap like a contented kitten, still wrapped up in and protected by his arms. 

I felt him stir and shift position slightly as I woke, his head turning to look down on me with the sweetest, most intoxicating smile I've ever seen, it having the almost childlike innocence of wanting to please. One of his strong, gentle, beautiful hands moved to lightly caress my throat. The sensation was indescribable, almost electric, as though sparkles of energy were flowing from his fingertips and tracing along my nerve endings, eliciting a somehow profoundly calming and centering affect. Was this the very same hand that had brought me back? Again he said something in that almost musical language, his voice very soft and by then rather hoarse. I hadn't the faintest idea how to even begin translating it. 

For a long few minutes I could only blink at him, stare into his eyes, but the silence that had come between us didn't seem at all strained or unnatural. It was simply a comfortable quietness. He held my gaze for a silent eternity, as if he could read my soul. 

He was, as far as human beings go, heart-stoppingly beautiful. But those amazingly warm eyes of his! The first time I'd seen them – _had it only been two days previous?_ – I'd nearly lost it. I think I could spend the rest of my life plummeting their depths and never find the bottom. They seem to darken and lighten according to his moods and I still can't decide exactly what color they really are. I think they fall somewhere in the range of what most people would call hazel,' but they're really ever changing and more chameleon-like. I've seen them appear to be almost green. Another time they seemed a soft golden-brown. Yet another time they were almost black. At that moment, however, they were a deep, rich, liquid chocolate. As I gazed into them I couldn't help but think they must've witnessed far more than I could ever know or imagine. 

Slowly it began to sink in: as surreal as everything had been, it was all quite real. _Absolutely ALL of It!_

I guess should've been terrified at finding myself smack in the middle of the _Twilight Zone_ and without a script in the arms of an almost-stranger. _And an alien, at that._ But I wasn't. The truth is, I'd never felt so sheltered and secure in my life.

"_I will protect you, Mel. On my oath, you will not come to any harm. I will not allow it._" That's exactly what he had told me. And somehow I knew that not only had he radically altered the predetermined course of his life to make good on that, he would continue to do so for as long as necessary. _No expiration date here._

Impulsively, I reached up and ran my fingertips down the length of his throat for just a second. I don't know why I did it. I mean, I'm seldom impulsive about _anything!_

His eyes widened at that and a dozen emotions flashed across his face in rapid succession: shock, astonishment, wonder, confusion, uncertainty, uneasiness, even a degree of shyness – as well as much more I couldn't even begin to attach a label to. I quickly pulled my hand away. At that moment I would've gladly paid every dime I had to know what he was thinking and why he was thinking it.

The mood broke. "We ... missed dinner last night," I stammered to cover my sudden and inexplicable feeling of embarrassment as I hastily scrambled to my feet. "Want some, um, breakfast?"

"Brea-fasss?" he repeated with a quizzical tilt of his head, fingering his throat where I had touched him.

"Um, yeah. Breakfast. The meal to _break_ the _fast_ of the night. Something to eat. You hungry?"

"Hungry? Yes, Mel. Breakfasss," he nodded, then hopefully asked: "Coffee?"

I had to smile. He had a one-track mind about coffee like most guys have about sex. "Yeah, Cole. Breakfast is the main meal for it. All the coffee you want." I extended my hand to him and he took it after only a brief moment of hesitation. His hand completely engulfed mine. 

Funny, isn't it? I knew from the beginning that he was a big guy, but until that moment I hadn't quite realized just _how_ big. It's not so much his height, although he is a good six feet. It's the breadth of those shoulders, the depth of that chest. "Come on. I think we'd both better wash up first. I'll show you how it's done. I don't know about you, but I always feel like _dreck_ when I sleep in my clothes."

"Don't like clothes, Mel," he commented as I led the way to the bathroom. 

__

Right. He'd said as much before. Clothes were completely new to him. He'd already told me that he didn't dress in anything. As strange as it may sound, I had the feeling that there might not even be any equivalents in his language for human words like naked' and clothes.'

I was uncharacteristically amused, even philosophical at the sight of myself in the mirror. Sure my eyes were swollen from crying and all trace of make-up was gone. Sure I was sunburnt and, _naturally,_ my cursed freckles had multiplied beyond any count. And sure my hair was a mass of tangles that looked as though it had been styled with an eggbeater. _But I was alive!_

Besides, I'd have a few hours to bathe and pull myself together after breakfast. 

"Cole? What's your name?" I asked, just making conversation as I snared as much hair in my fist as I could and clipped the whole mess to the top of my head. "I mean, your _real_ name."

"Daggon," he said, still absently touching his throat.

"Daggon?" I repeated. 

He nodded.

"Daggon _what_? Or _what_ Daggon? Whichever the case may be," I pressed as he curiously watched me scrub. 

Cole seemed genuinely bewildered at that, then offered a few short sentences _(I think that's what they were)_ in his own language. Either he didn't understand what I was asking, or he didn't have the English vocabulary to _enable_ him to answer. Or both. 

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Oh, great, I thought. Here I am bursting at the seams with _hundreds_ of questions and with more piling on by the minute, each answer likely to inspire several dozen _more_ questions – and he probably doesn't know more than four or five dozen words in the entire English language. _Tops!_ My questions would just have to wait until he was ready!

"Okay," I said, finishing with toweling off and handing him the bar of soap, a fresh washcloth and the nailbrush. "Your turn. Just do what I did. Face, neck, hands, arms. Don't forget to wash clear up to your elbows and make sure to get the dirt out from under your fingernails with the brush." I stopped him as he began to sniff at the soap. "You have a pretty good sense of smell, don't you?"

"Not good ... as Enixian ... or even Vardian," he said, staring at my hand touching his wrist.

"Okay," I said agreeably, mentally filing that info away for future reference. I'd heard the word Vardian' before, but couldn't quite place where or when. Sooner or later I was sure I'd make some sense of it. "But people ... humans, that is ... _don't._ I mean, our sense of smell isn't very good, so we don't usually examine our world with it. We might sometimes _whiff_ at something that has a nice aroma," I leaned in and demonstrated with the soap, "But we don't usually do a full-fledged, nostrils-flaring-and-twitching type _sniff_." I demonstrated that as well. "Understand?" 

After a few seconds delay during which I could only assume he was attempting to translate what I'd said to him, he nodded. 

"That's good," I told him, wondering just how much of it he'd really understood. Every word? Every second, third or fourth word? Less? I thought it likely he could understand more words than he could yet put together to coherently speak. "Now, go on. Wash your hands and face like I did."

He didn't appear to need a shave. Since he isn't human, I didn't know if that was odd or not. I certainly hoped that I wouldn't also have to teach him how to bathe himself. 

He stepped in front of the sink, briefly started at the sight of his own reflection in the cabinet mirror, but then quickly recovered and began to wash. 

Now, that reaction to his own mirror image set my mind racing. I've never really doubted that there must be other intelligent species in the universe. Dr Carl Sagan's famous _if only one tenth of one percent of all stars have planets and only one tenth of one percent of all those planets ..._' rundown makes complete sense to me. But, like most normal people, I'd never expected to _meet_ one. And _Star Trek_ be damned, I've never taken it for granted that life which evolved elsewhere would look much like a human (much less think of themselves as being _human_oids!) or even come particularly close to looking like _anything_ here on Earth. One has to assume that other planets would be home to completely different biologies, would foster completely different evolutionary histories ... 

Anyway, Cole _looked_ human, to be sure, yet external appearances can be deceiving. He obviously wasn't human at all. So the question was: _what exactly was I seeing?_ Some sort of advanced alien cosmetic surgery? A type of pod-person? An incredibly sophisticated hologram or astral projection? A Lamont Cranston-like mind illusion? A synthetic body of some kind worn like a costume and giving him a disguise or a secret identity? 

Surely, _surely_ he couldn't _really_ look like this ... Could he?

Cole' was the initial name he'd given ... And he looked so damn much like that Cole underwear model plastered on a score of billboards up and down Highway 88 ... There had to be a reason for that.

More questions I would just have to wait to obtain answers to.

That an alien visiting Earth would _need_ to have some sort of a disguise was, to my mind, an indisputable given. Judging from how brutal and inhumane the human race is and always has been to its own and every other species all around the globe, how gleefully we've tortured and slaughtered each other throughout our history with little or no excuse, how close we periodically come to completely annihilating each other, such would only be common sense. Think about it. If a UFO ever _actually_ landed on the White House lawn or in New York's United Nations Plaza and the aliens said, _take us to your leader,'_ would they be taken to see any leader at all? Or even the reporters from the _National Inquirer?_ Or would they immediately be targeted by tens of thousands of guns, tanks and bombers and seized by a paranoid military under the guise of national security' and clear and present danger'? 

Hell, if I were an alien I would steer well clear of having anything to do with us. I'd zone the Earth as _No Trespassing – Violators will be Shot and Alien-Autopsied – Not Necessarily in that Order._' 

__

Klaatu barada nikto, I thought as I fluffed out a fresh towel and handed it to him. He cocked his head at it a moment, then awkwardly began swiping it over his face. As resourceful, technologically competent and highly intelligent as he'd proven himself to be in cobbling my dinky home computer system together with microwave ovens and assorted bits and pieces of household electrical appliances, right then he looked so damn lost, almost childlike. But he certainly wasn't a child. 

He just made for a very naive and quite out of place human who, for some reason I simply couldn't fathom, had decided to place his trust in me. 

Even more unfathomable, I trusted _him_ – so much so that I'd behaved in ways I normally _never_ would! Sure it would be easy to say that I trusted him because he'd given me my life back, _but that wasn't it at all._ For no rational reason I can think of, I not only gave an admittedly strange and nearly naked man a ride after he'd fixed my car and then later brought him into my home, I'd also gone to his defense like a lioness protecting her cub when he'd manhandled that convenience store clerk. That little candy bar fiasco of his cost me a C-note! I mean, one would think that someone fixing your car could only go just so far! _Right?_ Yet the very next day I played chauffeur for him in pursuit of a murderer. Would you ever dream of doing such a thing? _I wouldn't, either!_ Devout card-carrying coward that I am, if it had been anyone else I'd have insisted he go through law enforcement channels! But he'd asked me for that favor – _and I'd done it!_

I reached over and combed his hair back off his forehead with my fingers and he closed his eyes, just allowing me to do it. Grabbing my brush, I then began doing a better job of it. "Jess, George, Helen and a few others already know you by the name of Cole.' I think it would be best if we just keep calling you that," I told him. "There'll be fewer questions that way. You okay with it?"

"Yes, Mel," he agreed. "Is okay."

And then the full impact of this struck me like a blow to the solar plexus and my knees went weak. _My God!_ He's _not_ human! He's an _alien_, some sort of cop from some other planet in some other star system who knows how many light years away. He came to Earth in pursuit of an alien serial killer named Rhee – and he's staying on to apprehend _(if I'd heard it right!)_ an additional 218 alien criminals who'd escaped from prison through a wormhole designed by the very same alien who'd killed me! 

He knows virtually _nothing_ about what it means to _be_ human, what a human even _is._

And he'd placed himself in _my_ hands, entrusting _me_ to teach it all to him, to be his guide. 

__

Me? I'm supposed to _do_ this? What an awesomely frightening and humbling responsibility! And I'd readily agreed to it, agreed to give him my help before I even knew what kind of help he was asking for or what it would entail. While I've never been one to turn my back on someone in need – and while he very seriously qualified as needing assistance – I very seriously needed to get my _head_ examined!

Where and how do I even begin? Each and every single facet of life that people automatically take for granted will be something I'll have to point out to him to and educate him about. Each and every single experience and behavior will be completely new for him and some of it _(at least!)_ will probably test his intelligence and surely try his patience on occasion. _And more than likely mine as well! _

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Oh, wow! The expressions _fish out of water'_ and _stranger in a strange land'_ – and probably _culture shock'_ as well – are going to take on whole new levels of meaning here!

__

What had I gotten myself into? I mean, this is nothing like adopting a stray puppy!

So, naturally, the warped side of my brain had to spew out a thoroughly gross thought to help defuse some of this mounting anxiety: _Hey, Porter! Look on the bright side. At least he's already housebroken! _

I started to giggle. _Am I sick, or what?_

"Mel?" He was looking at me oddly. "Breakfasss? Coffee?"

I became aware that I was just standing there, turning beet-red and staring at him with my hand clamped over my mouth. No wonder he was looking at me so oddly. 

"Um, right ... Breakfast," I mumbled as I hurried toward the kitchen, my new alien puppy following along. _Get a grip!_ I ordered myself. And a traitorous part of my mind shot back: _On what?_ – and continued forging ahead full-throttle.

So, okay. His sense of smell is probably better than that of a human and his skin seems to be very sensitive to the feel of fabric. _But what else?_ What about his hearing? Would he be able to pick up decibels beyond the human range, say the higher decibels of a dog whistle or the echolocation calls of a bat? Or how about the much lower decibels of things like tectonic plate movements? And what about his vision? Is it as sharp or is it less so? Sharper? Could he discern a rabbit from a half-mile away like a hawk? Or focus down to the infinitesimal like a microscope? Can he see in the dark like a cat or an owl? Does he have color vision? If so, does he see the same colors that I do and see them in the same way? Can he see into the infrared or ultraviolet ends of the spectrum like insects and birds apparently can? Maybe even beyond that? How about his sense of taste? Can he discern the same flavors that I can? Maybe ones that I can't? Does he have still other senses that I can't even imagine? 

__

Hold that last thought! A very _definite_ maybe on that. He'd not only raised me from the dead (I think), but before that he'd done something to my car's engine, speeded it up somehow. 

The questions just keep multiplying. Moreover, I have trouble with explanations that start in the middle and work there way outwards. And another thing is also very strange: in many respects I'm not quite certain exactly what questions I should ask – even if he were able answer them. I don't even know _what_ he is, what I'm dealing with here. 

He closely watched as I set up the _Mr Coffee_ to brew us a full eight cups of _French Roast_, then poured him out a glass of juice. "Pineapple juice," I told him. "It was fresh-squeezed yesterday at the health food store. It's the good stuff, not the canned crap." I went back to foraging through the fridge, adding, "Pineapple is a fruit from a tropical plant, a tree, I think."

"Thank you, Mel," he replied as I handed it to him. "And I remember. No sniff."

"Well ... I don't think a _whiff_ would be out of line if something strikes your fancy," I said, taking out the fixings for mushroom and Jarlsberg cheese omelets with bacon, toast and hash browns. I certainly can't eat all that food, but Cole has the appetite of a draft horse! "Just try not to be obvious about it, okay? Especially in front of other people. They might consider it kind of ... strange."

"I learn fast. Adapt. Must to ... survive." He spoke haltingly, apparently struggling for the proper words. Considering that he couldn't speak at all when I'd first picked him up, his learning curve was nothing short of mind-boggling. If the situation had been reversed, I doubt I would've made any progress at all with _his_ language. 

"Guess you would have to," I commented, it dawning on me that he'd probably done this type of thing before, gone undercover as some other species on some other world. Perhaps many times. 

I turned my attention back to our breakfast items. "Um ... This is an onion. It's a, um, type of plant structure called a bulb'. But I'll have to look up exactly what type of structure a bulb is. These are potatoes. They're starchy plant tubers, underground stems. Both onions and potatoes are considered vegetables. And these are mushrooms. They're a type of parasitic plant without any chlorophyll – that is, without the green to manufacture their own food from sunlight. We call such plants fungi.' That's the plural. Fungus' is the singul–" I stopped, nearly overtaken by an anxiety attack. 

I'm not a botanist. I'm not a _lot_ of things! Hell, I'm not really _anything!_ I mean, _sure_ I've had an extensive liberal arts education. I'm a college grad, I'm well read in many subjects and I've worked as a paralegal, among other things. But I hardly consider myself a genius. And I've always been something of a Jill of all trades, mistress of none' type. The knowledge of, anyway. Not the doing. I don't have any special skills, talents or abilities. And six months ago I became the proprietor of the tired old bar I inherited from my grandmother, for pity sake! What qualifies _me_ to try to explain all the many details and minutiae of this world to _anyone_, especially an _alien?_ I don't understand more than a fraction of it myself!

Cole was then standing right beside me, looking at me kindly, his long fingers soothingly stroking the base of my throat and saying, "I understand, Mel."

Exactly _what_ did he understand? What I'd just told him about pineapple juice, onions, potatoes and mushrooms? Or is he a mind reader who'd picked up on my never-ending internal monologue chastising me for my self-doubts and inadequacies? I couldn't think of a thing to say.

"Do you want me ... to leave?" he asked, his dark eyes searching for something in mine.

"Leave? _Leave?_" My voice nearly cracked in indignation. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "No! _Oh, no!_ I'd never ask that. It'd be much too dangerous for you. And you have no place to go. And I owe you this. You saved my life!"

"No, Mel," he said with a sad little smile. "You owe me nothing. I owe you everything."

__

That reasoning I didn't understand at all! 

"I take my promises every bit as seriously as you take yours," I scolded him. "I gave you my word. I said I would help you. And I will. As much as I'm able, for as long as you need. Don't you _dare_ try to make a liar out of me!"

Just then the phone rang and I grabbed it before the second ring sounded, snarling into the mouthpiece: "It's six-thirty in the morning and this had better be _damn_ good!" I'm always sweetness personified in the early morning hours. Especially before I've had my caffeine fix.

A familiar voice on the other end of the line nearly sobbed with relief: "_Mel!?!_ That you? _Thank God!_ I was becoming frantic with worry. I thought something horrible had happened to you!" It was Vic, my sometime boyfriend and always-dependable friend, calling from the scene of a double homicide where he'd found my broken-down car. 

I'd nearly forgotten our over hill, over dale car chase after Rhee.

I hate having to lie, but I amazed myself with how convincing I could be, just winging it with no preparation at all. And for once Vic's cop radar' was on vacation. He readily believed that I must've left my keys in the ignition, that my car had then been stolen, that I hadn't noticed it was gone because I didn't have to use it. And just by coincidence it was left abandoned at the same location as the double homicide. The fact that he'd discovered the car's electrical system was all burnt out only reinforced the story. After imparting some telling details about the investigation and after some inconsequential chitchat and banter between us, Vic promised he'd get my car repaired, then we both agreed on getting together again sometime soon.

"That was Vic Bruno," I informed my alien guest after we'd hung up. "He's a police detective. I think you saw me speaking with him at that crime scene you visited yesterday?" Cole nodded at that. "Vic's an old and very dear friend of mine. Anyway, the cops found Rhee's body and that of her last victim, the woman she was murdering as we chased her ... That woman's neck had been broken. _Hell,_ her head had nearly been twisted off! 

"As for the one you call Rhee ... Well, she was pretty badly beaten up. Broken collarbone, busted shoulder, five broken ribs, shattered sternum. They suspect internal injuries, too ..." I trailed off. It was deeply disturbing and hard to reconcile someone seemingly so gentle also capable of being that dangerously brutal. Then again, he'd faced off against someone who was even _more_ brutal ... I honestly didn't know what to think.

Cole was looking at me steadily, apparently not at all surprised at the news. 

"I'm confused here," I went on after a moment. And I'd meant to ask you. You'd told me that Rhee was a man. "But he's not. He's a _she_."

"Rhee is male," Cole said quietly. "Vardian. Was in body of female."

I shook my head. "I don't understand. Vardian?" _(That word again!)_ "You're saying he's – what? – a transsexual?" 

Cole didn't seem to know what I was talking about. "Rhee Vardian male," he said slowly. "Like Zin. But in body of female."

The dimwit light bulb finally lit up. I finally got the Vardian' part. Zin was the alien who'd killed me and he had said something about never trusting a Vardian. It was the name of a species. That probably meant that an Enixian' was _also_ a species. So far, so good. But the rest of it made no sense at all. I tried again. "You mean ... A Vardian male might be in the body of a male _or_ a female? That's ... I still don't understand. Wouldn't that make him a female and _not_ a male? That was very definitely a woman I ran away from, you know. A really _big,_ muscle-bound woman! She was almost as big as you are."

"Rhee Vardian male," Cole repeated. "Was in body of human female."

"How did he ..." I began, then just let it drop and went over to the _Mr Coffee_ to pour out two mugs. We were talking in circles and not getting anywhere. "Never mind. When your language skills improve you'll have to explain it to me, okay? For now I'll take your word for it that she is really a _he._" I handed him a mug. "But I see I was right about one thing." I paused. There was an extensive back-story here I hadn't a clue about. I could almost feel it. "It really was very personal for you, wasn't it? You beat the livid crap out of her – I mean _him._ And then you killed him!"

"Beat him, yes. As he try beat me. But I not kill. I took lifeforce."

"Took lifeforce'? Isn't that the same thing? The ME has _two_ dead bodies there."

"No. Not same," he insisted. "Body dead because Rhee kill. But Rhee's lifeforce live. I Collected." For a brief instant his dark eyes ignited with a cold, almost feral light of what might've been triumph – and just as quickly the light was gone and their expression gentled to their more usual warmth, leaving me wondering if I'd only imagined it.

I turned to the sink and began rinsing the potatoes and mushrooms, so confused and disorientated I was feeling a bit dizzy. I tried to think, but my brain had gone AWOL, perhaps left behind in that roadside ditch. I hadn't the slightest inkling or trace of rational thought of what this was all about. I've heard of collecting stamps, coins, rocks, seashells, butterflies, comic books, baseball cards, model cars, teddy bears, Wedgwood – all manner of things. But _lifeforces?_ Dead bodies and living lifeforces? Women that are really men? ... And what exactly _is_ a lifeforce', anyway – and how is it collected'? And _why?_ Surely I was missing something. Probably quite a lot.

"Um... I guess that's yet another thing you're going to have to explain to me a little further on down the road," I told him, trying to hold back the tears as my sinuses began reacting to the slice and dice I was doing on the onion. 

Cole was soon at my side, all worried.

"Mel? Why you crying?" he asked, hesitantly wiping a tear from my cheek with one finger.

I chuckled. Yesterday he'd been the one bawling and I'd told him that we cry because we care. And now he was quite understandably confused. "Onions, Cole," I told him. "Great stuff. But their aroma is kind of pungent – strong, that is – and it tends to irritate human tear ducts, forcing them to shed tears. Mine just happen to be more sensitive to the irritation than most."

He leaned over slightly and sniffed at the onion. "Yes. Is strong," he commented, taking the knife from my hand. "I will do this." 

I gladly relinquished it in favor of honking my nose into a paper towel.

__

Wow, could Cole ever handle a knife! From what I could gather, they're apparently a common tool all over the galaxy and he knew all about them. He cut up the onion, potatoes and mushrooms so quickly and so expertly he would've left a master Japanese chef gaping in astonished envy. He even threw in some entertainment, flipping the knife in the air and catching the point of it behind his back to balance on the end of one finger. I think maybe he sensed what a tailspin I was in over this whole situation and he was trying to put me at ease. Even if that hadn't exactly been his intention, it helped.

Breakfast preparations were soon well under way while I attempted to explain to him what I knew about cows, butter and milk, chickens and eggs, pigs and bacon. (It was cute watching him reining in his natural urge to sniff at the cooking aromas!). He listened attentively, though I have no idea how much he may have understood. Yet with all my prattling about human foods and giving him labels for kitchen and dining items, a plan of sorts began to formulate in my mind and my tensions began to let up. 

It's not as if Cole has the luxury of endless amounts of time to study the human condition and immerse himself in our ways. He has to quickly get up and running to enable him to do his job rounding up all those escapees and function within the context of American society in general and the Chicago area in particular. I didn't see spoken English as being too much of a problem. It seemed to be coming to him pretty rapidly and I hadn't any doubt that he'd be talking quite well within a week or two. All he needed was more observation, listening and practice. But he'd also have to learn how to read and write, which meant learning our alphabet. And he'd have to learn our numerical system at least well enough to handle money. More, he'd have to learn how to get around, the layout of the city, the train and bus routes, the cabs, the airport – and how they all operate. 

The best way to do this would be to work it like an artist does a painting: lay as much of it out as possible in broad, sweeping strokes and then add all the many layered details later with increasingly finer brushes. We'd begin with some simple basics.

I outlined my plans as we ate our breakfast, writing everything down. Today he would accompany me as I rented a car, stopped off at the bank, picked up my dry cleaning and went to the shoe repair. We'd then go to the video store to obtain learning tapes and detour to the library for books. He definitely needed more clothes, so Marshell Fields was an absolute must and a shopping mall like that was bound to be a learning experience for him in the bargain, likely taking up the rest of the day. Tonight was trash night and we'd go scavenger hunting, picking up anything he could work with in the way of discarded computers and appliances.

As for the following days and weeks ... Like most cities of any reasonable size, Chicago had organized tours catering to the tourist industry. There are bus tours and walking tours and tours by boat from the Chicago River and along the Lakefront. These were near the top of my list for the next few days as they would serve to familiarize him with the city's layout and landmarks – and as a bonus provide him with some history and the chance to interact with people. Perhaps by the end of the week the Lincoln Park Zoo and the Shedd Aquarium would serve to introduce him to other species on this world and could be a springboard for him learning about the countries they come from, climates, geography, political systems, peoples, cultures and all manner of things. The Historical Society would later provided the basics of American and Chicago area history. 

Then, of course, there is the Oriental Museum for the history, art and archeology of the ancient Near East, the Peace Museum, the Maritime Museum, the Museum of Science and Industry and – for what I was sure would be amusement – the Adler Planetary and Astronomy Museum ... 

I also realized that we might seem a very backward and primitive species to him – and let's face it, from his vantage point we probably are – but there's also a great deal very wonderful about us. You know, things like our many art forms, our cultures and societies, our foods, our histories. And I wanted him to experience that. I wanted to show him as much of the best of humanity as I possibly could so he would be able to take those memories back home with him when the time came. I can't really explain the why of it, but I thought it important I do that, important that he learn these things, so I added movies, theater, opera, dance, concerts and art museums to the list.

__

Yes! I could certainly give Cole the foundation he needed! At least the start of it. The more I expounded, the longer my list got and the more excited I became. The next few weeks – and for as long as he was here – were going to be an ongoing education for the both of us. 

****

Epilogue

"You're really going to keep him around?" Jess asked incredulously.

"He'll do odd jobs," I explained.

"They'll be _odd,_ alright," she sarcastically agreed.

"He's really not a bad guy when you get to know him," I told her. "He's actually a lot like us."

"Uh huh," she allowed, her tone saying precisely the opposite. "So! Where's he going to stay?"

"There!" I said, pointing up towards my apartment.

Jess' eyes widened at that. "Mel! _No!_ You can't be serious! You've moved him in with you? _That's crazy!_ And it's so unlike you! You just met the man only two days ago and you don't know anything about him!"

"I know enough," I told her.

"For a trip to the far side of the moon, sure. Can't say as I blame you for that. ... Wouldn't mind having a crack at that fun ride myself ..." She gave a lascivious grin that left no doubt of where her mind was, then her expression became serious as she returned to the subject at hand. "But it doesn't matter how good he is in the sack. You can't just –"

"It isn't _like_ that, Jess," I sternly interrupted. "He's staying in my spare room and he's only a boarder. Nothing more."

Her eyebrows crawled farther up her forehead than I thought would be possible as her mouth twitched in disbelief. _"Yeah! Right!"_ she chortled, breaking out in laughter.

"Jess! I mean it! He'll be staying in my apartment, not in my bed."

"_Bloody hell_, I mean it, too!" Her mood changed abruptly as she slapped the bar top for emphasis. "Did it ever occur to you that he might only be using you? Mel, you're too good a person, too trusting, too caring, and too willing to believe a guy's line of bullshit! Sometimes it's like you're going around wearing a sign that says _kick me,'_ just setting yourself up for a fall. And I don't want to see you getting hurt all over again by yet another unappreciative creep! It's much too messy helping you pick up the pieces."

"I won't be hurt," I assured her. "I know what I'm doing this time."

"That's what you said the _last_ time!" Jess gripped both my hands in hers and leaned across the bar, earnestly trying to get me to see her point. "Mel, look. I know you want to think Cole's different, but really, you scratch the surface and underneath all men are alike. Trust me on this."

"Since when did you get to be such a hardened cynic?" I gently teased, trying to calm her down. I couldn't get angry about her attitude because I fully understood where she was coming from. Jess was only trying to be as protective of me as I was trying to be of Cole.

She brushed her bangs back from her face with a swipe of one hand and gave me a tight, lopsided grin. "I've always _been_ a hardened cynic. Haven't you noticed?"

I guess I should've noticed. Jess tends to see things in terms of black and white and quickly categorizes them as good or bad, right or wrong – then makes her decisions accordingly. I, on the other hand, seem forever doomed to wrestle with a million shades of gray, trying to analyze all the nuances and effects of circumstances. But no matter what I ever do or what decision I come to, I'm never quite certain that I've made the _right_ choice. It's probably why she thinks of me as an anal retentive control freak. It's just I can't help feeling that, if I try to stay in control, I can protect myself from the repercussions of any _wrong_ decisions. 

I just wish I knew why things seldom work out that way. 

In this case, however, I was absolutely _positive_ beyond any doubt that helping Cole was not only the _right_ choice for me to make, it was the _only_ choice I _could_ make.

I looked up as Cole emerged from the stairwell. Jess turned and eyed him as well, her lust now tempered with a degree of speculative wariness. "Since you're obviously too smitten to watch out for yourself, I'll just have to do it for you," she said, low enough that her voice wouldn't carry. "I won't sit idly back and let him hurt you or take unfair advantage."

Shouldering my purse, I reached over and patted her hand. "I appreciate your concern, Jess. I really do. But things will be fine. I can't really explain now, but try to understand and be supportive. This is something I have to do. I really have to. Just be your usual efficient self and try to get along with him."

I could feel her eyes vigilantly guarding my back as we walked out the door to begin our first day. Although I was positive I wouldn't need her protection, it still felt good to know she was there.


End file.
